


No One Will Hurt You

by ginger_green



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy Fluff, Damsels in Distress, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Horror, Minor Character Death, Past Torture, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-24 09:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: Knight-Commander of Starkhaven is planning to present his prince with a special gift. The 'gift' has other ideas.





	No One Will Hurt You

The sun turned hot pink on the west and a cold mist began to descent upon the daydreaming forest. Here and there minor nocturnal predators, still heavy-eyed with blissful sleepiness, were scratching their talons and shining furry coats, ready to begin the nightly hunting routine.

Knight-Commander Evert patted his horse and wiped his forehead with a cotton cloth. Despite the upcoming nightfall, his bald dome was glistening with sweat. He's traveled far for today but was nonetheless determined to proceed further. Through clearing in the woods he could make out the towers of Raen-Morvae, a small fortress lost on the way to Starkhaven. The old owner had abandoned it long ago, and His Highness Prince of Starkhaven, practical as always, deemed it suitable to expropriate the fortress in the Chantry's favor.

Or, well, whatever was left of the Chantry.

Sebastian has been gloomy as of late. Not long after his return the waves of rebellion have rocked Starkhaven. He lost sleep and appetite, and his dreamy eyes looked heavy with hate. Being not only a brother in faith but a close friend, Evert was hoping his little victory would sweeten His Highness' mood.

Oh and what a victory!

"Open the gates!"

Four buff watchers put their backs into spinning the giant wheel which lifted heavy gates through the intricate work of gears and weights. Evert dismounted, and a young servant was there in an instant to take the reins and lead the tired beast off to the stables. A few recruits were training in the courtyard; they paused and saluted as Knight-Commander passed swiftly by, nodding to each of his knights with a kind of firm, fatherly approval.

The first to greet him at the front porch was his second in command, Knight-Lieutenant Campbell. The boy was barely in his twenties, with soft feminine features, plump lips, and a set of eyes that could set hearts on fire - if you were into such things. Evert wasn't. He respected Campbell's initiative, his talent for strategy and - a true rarity these days - sound mind.

As they walked through the dark hall toward the staircase, Campbell munched on his lip in uneasy silence. Evert studied him with a squinted look. The boy was all pins and needles. He was not the kind to be frightened lightly; his upset expression flared Commander's anxiety.

"Does he talk?" he asked, if only to shake the lad a little bit. Campbell started at his voice like a spooked horse, and for a second his eyes had that strange flash - almost like... fear.

What in Andraste's name is going on?

"I almost wish he didn't. The knights are having headaches. Nothing useful, as I understood, except quite the mounts of... inappropriate language." Campbell lowered his voice as if afraid the walls might hear him. "I heard the interrogators asking him question after question, and he just... laughed."

Well, that would explain the worrying. Evert was not expecting the interrogators for another day or so; bearing unprepared witness to their work must have been hard on the boy. As hard as encountering such evident a monstrosity as their new prisoner. To stand face to face with this _thing_, this murderer - and hear him laugh! Even Evert's heart paced at this notion. And he was old and had seen abominations, blood mages, and demons of all sorts.

"He won't be laughing much longer."

They descended into the dungeons, where uneven spots of torchlight carved crude figures out of darkness. Two rows of heavy doors stretched alongside the corridor. Most cells were empty, but some spilled bleak light of a candle through barred windows. Someone moaned as they passed by. Campbell swallowed hard and shivered.

They kept turning and taking stairs until last flash of light faded and the shadows enveloped them completely. There was one last door here, left ajar as if inviting to come in. To come in and see.

Can you hear it? Smoldering oil dripping on the floor, sizzling when touching damp stone. Rumbling of chains as metal cuffs gnaw on flesh, dig through the skin. Too tight. Evert has gotten used to it, but to an untrained ear it is still so new - coarse, wheezing cough, heavy breathing that gives no air. Hear it whistle through his broken teeth, pouring back through bubbles of blood and saliva. And as a contrast - dry rustle of parchment and scribbling of a sharpened quill.

And the smell - you get used to it too, but here it's sharper, heavier. Evert's head starts to ache when he senses it. Lyrium. Of course. They must all be stoned as balls to keep this thing under control.

"Commander." One of the interrogators turns to greet them. He doesn't salute, only bows lightly. These quiet hunters, picked specifically for extracting information from dangerous apostates, always brought Evert on his toes. There was something profoundly unsettling about their darker, not-so-flashy uniforms and their professional restraint. As if they were conserving energy for... something else.

He nodded, avoiding the interrogator's gaze, and made a gesture for Campbell to shut the door behind them.

Chained to the wall, the prisoner slowly raised his chin and met Knight-Commander's icy glare.

"Ah... Th-there is... Knight-Commander himself." Words clumped on his tongue. He paused to take a breath; speaking was clearly demanding for him. "I almost-ugh! - almost thought... it'd be too easy."

"You will speak when addressed, mage."

The dungeon was stuffy. Evert took his cloak and chestplate off, but left the gauntlets. Campbell followed his example, hasty as if scared to be left the only one improperly dressed.

"You still have time..." The prisoner coughed, having apparently ignored Evert's words. "Still... have time."

"For what, I wonder?"

Evert circled his victim, estimating the amount of damage already made. Damn those interrogators. Who cares what Grand Cleric wants at this point? This man is Evert's. He _belongs_ to him, his death and life - they're _his_.

He took a moment to aim and made the first blow. It got right into the center of a large bruise, where someone's unsteady hand had broken the mage's lower ribs. Maybe that's why he had trouble breathing.

The prisoner bent over and whimpered with a sound a sick mabari could make. His chest trembled, drawing shallow, painful breaths. The sound was comforting. Watching this thing crawl in its own filth would not make things the way they used to be, but it made Evert fill better. This thing will not hurt anyone again.

"Where is your associate?" he inquired in a level tone. The prisoner laughed. Evert kicked him in the stomach. "Where is the Champion?"

"Hha... ha..." Each spasm of laughter made crimson film on the mage's lips foam. "Impatient. Will be... your undoing."

He's tough. Nothing less was to be expected. Evert stretched, listening to the crackle of his neck vertebrae. This was going to be deeply satisfying.

What happened next brought dawning terror to his lieutenant's face. In this black, damp vacuum of a cell, staring into each other's eyes, they were alone: The fearful Knight-Commander and the rebel of legends. Evert made a series of blows, covering mage's torso, spine, neck and each long bony arm in a new blossoming bouquet of bruises. He worked until beads of sweat came dropping on the floor from his eyebrows, mixing with thick black bile. His victim endured the punishment without complaining. He only wheezed and coughed and spat blood. He did not laugh anymore.

That is truly what it takes. Not those shrewd devices jangling in interrogators' pouch. Not ripped fingernails or twisted genitals. Honest work and dedication, that's all you need.

"You've nowhere left to run, apostate." Evert took a recess to wipe some blood off his newly shined gauntlets. "Nobody's coming to help you. I could send you to His Highness as you are, but he will be ever so satisfied if presented with both of you. So... Where - is - the Champion?"

Each word was accompanied with a crunching sound as he yanked hard on the mage's fingers, causing them to pop from the joints. The prisoner's spite broke, and he met each twisted finger with a short cry. His whole body was twitching, shaking, like all nerves had suddenly given up, like there was nothing left in him but pain that just won't stop, ever.

"Greedy-aargh!.. Too greedy. Not... yours. Not... mine."

"What are you babbling about? Speak plainly."

The mage only coughed and wheezed, hanging on his chains like a broken doll. Evert allowed him a short break. No use for a dead mage, that he knew for sure.

He found a sense of quiet triumph in the sight of this broken, filthy, rose-bruised body. Whatever this thing used to be was no longer important. It will break. They all do. Proud and powerful, they are just beasts at the end, and the righteous prevail as they fall. Evert threw his head back and took a deep breath.

While he was in thought, the prisoner wiggled one of his crooked fingers, gesturing for Campbell to come closer. The latter froze in fear at first, but then hesitantly approached. The mage turned slowly like a poorly oiled cog and looked him in the eye.

Campbell drew back, battling a sudden desire to turn and run. Two smoldering dots followed him without blinking. They burned through his skin, not in the heart but in the skull, intimate and direct in every wrong way. Maybe Knight-Commander was right. That was no human.

"Come here. Come... closer."

Campbell bent over, masking a grimace of disgust. He got so close that choking whispers caressed his ear, a gentle touch of still air odd and wrong against his youthful skin.

"Too young. Still... have time. Don't have to--don't have to die... this way."

Last breath left him, and he slouched down in blissful oblivion.

"Commander," Campbell called with a nervous undertone. "I think we should go."

"Go? What are on about? We've only just started."

They didn't get to argue as the air was pierced by distant shouting, rattle of shattering armor, and a dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground. Following was a low rumble, like a roar of some unearthly beast, spreading through the walls and causing tremor in every muscle. Evert darted to the door, clutching the hilt of his sword. What in the Void is it now?

He paced back and forth, hesitant to leave his treasured prize in the hands of two interrogators. Another scream shook the silence and sent shivers down his back. A sound full of pure terror.

"Don't move," he ordered firmly as Knight-Lieutenant rushed to follow him outside. The boy stopped in his tracks with clear protest written on his face, but Evert has already leapt out and shut the door behind him.

The corridor was pitch-black. Cold draft brought a strange screeching noise and a smell of smoke. Evert felt the wall, trying to find a torch - and cried in surprise when his hand fell into emptiness and got swallowed by shadows. The door to the nearby cell was wide open. The screeching must have come from the hinges as the door swung back and forth. Evert made a slow breath and proceeded up the stairs, slowly, one arm outstretched in search of obstacles.

But as he ventured on, the screeching did not stop. It came from behind and the front, from left and right and even up and down. And the wind howled and chilled his exposed neck.

He called into the dark and received no answer. Where are his knights? Where are the guards and the servants?

A sudden noise made him jump. Loud stomping came from around the corner, closer, closer. He drew his sword and held back, waiting. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. Closer. Closer.

"Commander, Commander!!"

A lit torch spilled bleak light over him. Holding it was one of the watchers that let him in. What are they doing down here? It must have been an urgent matter; the watcher's face was pale as cotton and glistening with sweat. Evert raised his palm, offering the man to calm down. The effect was poor.

"Hold there, good knight. What's happening upstairs?"

"Up-upstairs, sire?!" The watcher gulped, shaking so violently his armor plates clanged against each other. "It-it's everywhere, the yard, the chambers, the walls!! Maker, it's in the walls!!"

He expelled an inhuman wail and charged past Evert down the corridor. But he didn't get very far. Evert only heard a soft _swoosh!_ and saw movement under the ceiling. Then a thin black noose snatched the watcher around the neck and yanked him upwards with demonic force, causing his air passages to collapse with one last shaky squeal. The torch fell, bouncing and bleeding sparks over the floor. Evert yelled and launched to hold the knight by the ankles - but it was too late. He went limp and motionless, strangled within seconds.

Evert bent over and picked up the torch. He held it high above his head, casting about in total bewilderment.

He froze speechless.

Every single cell was wide open. There was no more candle light giving away a stray resident - only gaping holes of complete darkness, silent and dead. The watcher's body was hanging from the beams with its head twisted in such a way as to leave no doubt that his neck was broken. When Knight-Commander looked up, something slick and warm dripped onto his bald head. Cursing and struggling to keep hold of the torch, he pulled one of his gauntlets off and wiped his dome with a back of his palm.

It was dark-red. Dark-red and runny. And it smelled of iron.

He threw his head back, piercing darkness under the ceiling. He made a few steps, and the drops of blood drummed on his armor and soaked his shirt. At some point the flames grew higher, blown by the draft, and he saw them: Two bodies nailed to the beams, fresh blood forming a puddle underneath them. Their throats were slit wide open, stretched like two maws in a silent scream. They were nailed with daggers that went deep into aged wood, penetrating flesh of their wrists and hips, neatly pinning their cloaks and sleeves.

Evert raised the torch a little higher to make out their faces. They were cut up but still recognizable. The interrogators.

Campbell!

He stumbled back, down the stairs, running into open doors and sharp corners; light flickered and almost died as he rushed through the dungeons with a mix of rage and panic, steel in his eyes burning with blistering heat, every muscle tense and prepared to meet the enemy. But where _is_ the enemy? Where is the monster that did this?

Had he paid enough attention, he would have spied a large form crawling along the parapet. But he did not pay attention, and he did not notice a tripwire stretched low above the ground in the end of the corridor - just a few feet away from the last door. And he tripped and his knees met the ground with a sharp strike of pain, softened a bit by the armor yet still very much notable.

He groaned, landing on all four, and reached for the sword that clanged down the stairs two feet behind him. He never got to use the weapon, however, as something great and heavy landed on his back, making each breath a struggle and pinning him to the floor without any hope for freedom. He tried to push back, but the stranger had a clear advantage. His hands rustled down Evert's spine, found both of his wrists, and twisted them so violently he roared in pain. White spots danced before his eyes, and he felt the prickling numbness in his arms as bloodstream was cut off briefly from them.

"You might wanna stop writhing and look me in the eye before I break your spine."

The voice was soft and playful, with a chuckle hidden behind each word. Evert's body was stiff and heavy, but he obeyed, if only out of spite. He was no coward, no failure. Sound mind prevails. Demons fall.

Looking down at him was no demon. It was a man. In his mid-forties, handsome, with scars that mutilated his beauty and added to it at the same time. His biceps bulged under hunting leathers and his amber eyes glowed with determination. He was flesh and blood. Just another beast. And yet he was in control, and Evert could not move a digit, staring blankly into those pools of dark gold.

"You've relieved me of something important," the man spoke in a musing tone. "I'll be removing him from your possession. You can struggle and die, or lie here quietly... and also die."

Knight-Commander responded with a violent strike - a strike that never hit the target as the man twisted his wrist at an angle incompatible with human anatomy, wrenching it until Evert's carpal bones began to crunch and shift under his strong fingers. Evert's teeth clenched in a helpless attempt to hold back a cry.

Time has slowed down as he lay there, huffing with effort, trying to gather his thoughts, scrap a prayer from slipping words, curse, fight back. The man used his confusion to reach for a short blade on his waist.

"I'd love to pay you back in full," he noted, watching glimpses of fire spring on the steel verge, "but I'm short of time. So I'll make it fast."

Evert made a move to bite his opponent, but a fist in the nose stopped him. Sour flavor of blood sipped through his tightly shut lips. He gathered all his strength for the last time.

"M-Maker... spit... on you."

Cold steel burned his throat with a flash of agony. His lungs exploded with ache, quickly filling with liquid. He gasped and roared, but no sound came out. And then came the cold, soft numbness, like he was floating, and he twitched and kicked in blinding fear, but his limbs did not move. And then his head became light, and pain faded, and there was only the smell of iron, and fear, and dark nothing. And there was no more Evert. No more Knight-Commander.

"Name's Hawke, by the way," was the last thing he heard. "Garrett Hawke."

***

"Well, now I _really_ regret making it fast."

Campbell rose on his elbows, failing to keep balance in the shape-shifting world of post-concussion. He vaguely remembered prisoner's lips forming 'sorry', then a flash of blue light brighter than lightning, the jingling of metal that shattered like glass. And now he was on the floor, his hair slick and his body sore. And he had no idea what just happened.

Through blurry shades he made out a lanky figure that somehow managed to stand up straight, though swinging left and right on twig-shaped legs. Another figure, large and bulky, busted through the door. Campbell shut his eyes at the blinding light of a torch. Something clanged and fell, then there was sobbing, and someone cursed in a broken voice.

"Hawke... I'm so happy... to see you."

"You're a moron is what you are! I thought our strategy was to _not_ get captured! Is that--let me see, dammit!--how can a finger even bend like that?"

"Tired... of running. Had to take the fight... to them."

"And never thought of telling me, of course. If you die, I'll bring you back and then strangle you. This is ridiculous!"

"Not... your fault. Not... your fight."

"Shut up. My dog makes more sense than you."

Campbell watched from the corner as the bulky man scooped up his gangly counterpart, cradling him like a groom would cradle a bride. The prisoner moaned, squeezing his broken ribs. His rescuer grimaced and shifted slightly, allowing him more comfort.

"Hurts."

"Of course it hurts, you idiot. Come on, let's get you out of here."

He made a step toward the door when rustling in the corner attracted his attention. Campbell froze, trying not to breathe.

"You there," called the one named Hawke. "You still alive?"

Shit. Campbell quickly assessed his chances. The result did not look promising. He could barely walk on his own, never mind repel an attacker. But something in the man's voice told him there was a way out, an improbable glimpse of hope. He cleared his throat, each sigh prompting a cloud of dust.

"Y-yes, serah."

It seemed like for a moment Hawke was considering his options. He clutched the prisoner to his chest, absentmindedly running his fingertips through filthy golden locks. When he spoke again, his tone was more sinister yet somehow less intimidating.

"Go back to Starkhaven. Tell Sebastian there will be no vengeance. I do not raise arms against my friends."

Then he turned away and directed all his attention to the half-conscious mage in his arms.

Campbell could still hear his cooing long after the Champion of Kirkwall walked out of the cell and left the gloomy halls of Raen-Morvae.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.

"You're gonna catch a cold. Here, take my coat... Are those new? You sure? Look pretty new to me... So that was the Commander, huh? Well, one less templar on our tail. Just tell me next time you wanna get chained to a wall. I'll bring wine and Isabela's drawings."

Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

"Shh. I'm here now. No one will hurt you anymore."

Blessed are thou who stand before the corrupt and the wicked, and do not falter.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, yes, I know it's an old cringy trope and in reality Sebastian is not such a one-sided villain. but what can I say, I love the murder couple and I wanted to treat myself.


End file.
